skip to Main Content

Tracey’s Shit List

  • September 3, 2009

1. McDonald’s. I’m not talking about those ‘tards at the McDonald’s up the street from my house (which, if you remember, is why we no longer have McDonald’s Monday). I’m talking about a different McDonald’s and the d-bag who thought it would be a good idea to have double drive thru lanes that require hungry and/or stoned McDonald’s customers to take turns and merge. Implementing a system that the general public has to self administer is just asking for trouble. How long before the drive thru reaches riot levels and someone goes all “Reginald Denny” on some annoying blinged out milfy mom in a giant SUV who is yammering into her cell phone and trying to cut in line? *****This McDonald’s location never fucks up my order though so yay!

2. People who post five or more Facebook status updates in one 24 hour period. Set up a Twitter account, you losers! And I won’t be following you. Also, I don’t need to know that your kids have homework, it’s bunco night, or everyone’s! eating! tacos!

3. The duggar’s. Okay, we get it. Michelle and Jim Bob like to put the penie in the pie. A lot. And they don’t like birth control. But seriously Duggars, stop reproducing. Michelle your uterus is just going to fall out and land on the sidewalk someday. Thankfully, Michelle has made some much needed improvements to her hairdo. If you want to see it, click here and head over to DG’s World by Big D. She’s got a bitchin’ picture of Michelle’s new ‘do.

4. In the last three weeks, I have seen no fewer than three dudes scratch their balls while they are talking to me. Here’s the thing guys, your hands and/or genital area are not, in fact, invisible. I can see you scratching. Just because you keep on talking to me doesn’t mean I didn’t notice. Plus, now I’m not only grossed out, I’m creeped out too. You don’t see chicks walking around scratching down there, even if we are dealing with the outgrowth of a bikini wax/trim/shave/whatever. Seriously, girls don’t scratch in public (unless maybe they have crabs or something which at least helps us identify who the whores are. Am I right?)

5. Old Navy. I think I’m going to have to write Old Navy a letter. It will read like this:

Dear Old Navy,

I recently returned to the work force and had to buy a whole new wardrobe (at least that’s what I told my husband). Because I am working at a junior high, and will probably come into contact with sweat, puke, general 8th and 9th grade funk, and the H1N1 flu virus, I wanted to purchase clothing that was cute, inexpensive, and possibly disposable. Your retail establishment offered everything I was looking for.

However, I ordered four pairs of chinos online, and not one pair fits me the same (and in the case of the navy blue pair, not at all). Since I’m tall, I love your web site because I can order my pants and jeans in a longer length. The drawback, however, is that I cannot try anything on. When I get a big box in the mail, full of new Old Navy clothes I get very excited. But when I received my last order and started trying everything on, I wanted to march into your headquarters and stab people with a screwdriver. Kindly fix your pants sizing clusterfuck immediately. The employees working in your corporate headquarters will be very grateful. Or dead. It’s really your decision Old Navy.

6. Walk in clinic. Last week, I had to pick up Matthew in the nurse’s office because he was burning up with fever and complaining of a sore throat. I knew it was strep because I’ve been down this road with him a few times before. I only had 35 minutes to get him to the doctor and then get back home before the bus dropped Lauren off. I chose the walk in clinic, a decision I now regret. First of all, the nurse practitioner ripped me a new one for not “filling out the waiting log correctly.” Apparently, writing down my time of arrival, AND the number of the beeper assigned to me (Jesus, walk in clinic, do you think you are Outback Steakhouse or something?) was not good enough. As I am standing there with my poor child who is ON FIRE with fever and whimpering she pointed out that I had not written down my name. Even though we were the only people waiting. And some A-hole had scribbled out the column that said “name” so I didn’t even know there was someplace to write it down (in case the beeper and/or visual scan of the waiting area did not help her to identify that THERE WAS A MOMMY AND A SICK LITTLE BOY WAITING TO GET SOME MEDICAL ATTENTION AND BY THE WAY THE BUS IS GOING TO DROP OFF MY OTHER CHILD IN 25 MINUTES SO GET DIAGNOSING YOU BITCH). *I’m very sorry about all the yelling*. Anyway, I shot her my best dirty look and let out a little “ugh” under my breath. I also gave very curt little answers to her questions because her attitude made me all passive aggressive. Luckily, we did manage to make it home before the bus dropped Lauren off. However, the nurse practitioner did not prescribe the right dose of antibiotic for Matthew, he got much sicker, and I had to take him to his pediatrician to get the right drugs as well as an oral steroid to reduce the swollen tonsils that were so big he couldn’t even enunciate words properly. And yes, the walk in clinic did receive a piece of my mind some constructive criticism.

7. Dave. I love my husband (97.6% of the time) but the other night, Dave said “Chloe has some poop hanging off her butt.” I’m all “okay, then deal with it.” I mean, if you see it, shouldn’t you just be the one to take care of it? And haven’t I been almost 100% responsible for attending to all the shit (and I mean that literally people) that has come out of the offspring’s you-know-whats from the time they were born until they were potty trained? So why in God’s name is the shit hanging off the dog’s butt my sole responsibility? Man up Dave. If you see a dingleberry, do something about it.

8. Chloe. I don’t know what the hell you rolled in when you were in the back yard but I’m pretty sure it was poop. And then I had to wrestle you into the tub and scrub something stinky and brown off your fur. And then I had to completely change my clothes which required ironing an entire new outfit and selecting new shoes. And then a little while later you insisted on climbing onto my lap and I thought you still smelled like shit but I wasn’t sure if I was just being paranoid and since I’m lazy I decided to just febreze my lap because I am not made of ironed outfits plus I didn’t feel like going upstairs. ****If you see me today and I smell like shit blame Chloe.

Tracey’s shit list

  • March 25, 2009

1. Chloe. Please be advised that when your barking awakens everyone in the house at 5:11 AM it falls under my job description to get up and investigate. Discovering our neighbor’s dog (think huge, slobbering, and looks like it should have a keg of brandy around its neck) unleashed and sitting creepily in their front yard doesn‘t mean you need to go ballistic. Chill, Scrappy Doo. We have an invisible fence and everyone knows you’re not going anywhere so put down your dukes and shut up so we can all go back to sleep.

2. Ford Motor Company. Seriously, the only reason I deviated from my “all Japanese engineering all the time” standards is because my dad sold me this Ford Explorer on the cheap. We needed a bigger vehicle and he happened to be selling one but so help me God if I have to replace my power antennae for the THIRD time I will fly to Detroit, march into your manufacturing plant, and start randomly beating production workers with the antennae. I should have just left it broken after I parked under a big tree at Barnes and Noble and bent it all to hell when I backed out of my parking space. Looking ghetto would have been a small price to pay compared to the “nails on a chalkboard” noise I have to listen to every time my (BRAND FUCKING NEW) antennae goes down when I turn off the ignition.

3. Sears. First of all, no one goes to your shitty store unless they need a lawnmower, a major appliance, or in my case, they have to pick up their husband’s new grill.

Firstly, when I pull up into the parking spot reserved for merchandise pickup and your sign instructs me to call a number and wait in my car so that I will be assisted in five minutes guaranteed, PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE.

Secondly, when I walk into your store it will not make me very happy when you laugh and tell me the sign is old and the number “doesn’t even work anymore.” It’s not wise to keep telling me how wrong I’m doing the merchandise pickup thing unless you have some sort of death wish.

When I finally got back outside and through another set of doors to the kiosk they’ve told me about, I managed to do that all wrong as well. I touched the screen, it asked me to type in my last name, and then it informed me my merchandise would be REPAIRED soon (average wait time 28 minutes).

Luckily for Sears, some dude came out and I explained that I was just there to pick up an already-paid-for-should-be-assembled grill. He disappeared and I stood around, messing with the kiosk thingy trying to figure out why it thought I was there for repair.

I finally realized that I tapped the screen too fast and it skipped the main menu that allows you to choose the merchandise pickup option. I experimented with how slow you need to tap the screen and I think I initiated four or five fictitious merchandise pickup orders, which hopefully crippled their whole stupid system.

Lastly, two nineteen year old boys managed to shove the grill into my shit-list Ford Explorer and its obvious they spent their lunch hour smoking. I’ll be lucky to get Beavis and Butthead’s Marlboro fumes out of my vehicle by next Tuesday.

Wow, I feel a lot better now.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s post: The Real Housewives do Fashion Week.

Back To Top
×Close search